The Flower and Willow World
by Captainraychill
Summary: "Every detail of her appearance and bearing had been exquisitely crafted. She was beautiful, delicate and aloof – an exotic creature from another world, a world of silk fans and cherry blossoms." Voldemort has won, and Hermione serves as his personal geisha.


"Every detail of her appearance and bearing had been exquisitely crafted. She was beautiful, delicate and aloof – an exotic creature from another world, a world of silk fans and cherry blossoms."

This was written for HP_Kinkfest 2013 on Livejournal dot com. An alternate univerese/Voldemort wins scenario, in which Hermione is Voldemort's personal geisha. From Author Lesley Downer, by way of Wikipedia, "It is still said that geisha inhabit a separate reality which they call the _karyukai_ or "the flower and willow world." Before they disappeared, the courtesans were the colorful 'flowers' and the geisha the 'willows' because of their subtlety, strength, and grace."

**Warnings: ** Dark Fic/ mention of rape and torture/ dubious consent/ elements of slight gore and horror

Thank you to the wonderful UnseenLibrarian for the super-fast beta work!

* * *

**The Flower and Willow World**

* * *

The first time the Mudblood was summoned to the Serpent Court, she was naked and in chains. Her fair skin was mottled with bruises, and her wild hair concealed her face. Fresh blood wept scarlet down her thighs. Rodolphus paraded her down the length of the Great Hall and shoved her onto her knees before the throne. The enchanted ceiling revealed storm clouds.

"Submit to me," the Dark Lord ordered.

She raised her head, and I noticed, with mild interest, the delicacy of her profile. She had a long, slender neck and an aquiline nose. My gaze wandered down to her breasts. They were small and perfectly-shaped. My brother-in-law's wand point had dotted them with burns. I wondered what Bella thought of his obsession with this one. Rodolphus visited the Pit every night after Feast, and rumor intimated that he took his perverse pleasures with Granger alone. Lucius only entered the Pit once a week, just enough for his disgust and reluctance to remain unobserved. He won't allow me to touch him for three days afterward. I don't know, nor do I want to know, how often Draco frequents that place.

"Do as I command," the Dark Lord said.

The Mudblood spat at his feet, and a collective gasp swept through the court. We held our breaths, waiting for him to sever her head. One by one, beginning with Potter, the defiant had been decapitated with violent spews of blood. Their heads hung like a string of gruesome lanterns in the Entrance Hall. But, of course, there were punishments less swift than death reserved for women.

"Back to the Pit then," he said, his eyes gleaming red. "For a week."

The second and third times the Mudblood was summoned to the Serpent Court, she spat at the Dark Lord's feet again.

The fourth time, however, after a total of fifty-one days in captivity, her rebellion crumbled. She shuddered and sobbed. She begged him not to send her back. She swore she would obey. Horror stripped away her pride, and she bowed low before him, exposing her pink slit for all the room to see. There were vicious bite marks on her buttocks and thighs. Through my lashes, I glanced at Rodolphus and saw that he was furious at the prospect of losing his toy.

"Good girl," the Dark Lord whispered. Her frantic submission pleased him. I heard triumph in his words and a small hint of tenderness. "You will be rewarded with a chamber and time to heal before your service begins."

* * *

It became clear that Bella wouldn't have cared if her husband had raped and tortured the Mudblood for the rest of his days. But that the girl had caught her lord's eyes, that he had called her a _good girl_… Bella's dark eyes flashed with crazed jealousy.

"I'll kill her," she raved within my Silenced dressing room. Her black figure cast a line of infinite reflections in its large mirror. "I'll find some secret way to kill her."

"He would know," I said. "Be patient. No slave ever holds his interest for long."

That was then I learned that the Dark Lord wanted the Mudblood for more than just sex. When he'd crept through Potter's mind, seeking a way to lure the boy to the prophecy, the Dark Lord had seen Granger. He had heard her sing.

"He says she has a beautiful voice," Bella murmured wretchedly. My sister couldn't sing. I took her hands in mine as tears fell over her sharp cheekbones.

The next day, an uprising in Rouen took the Dark Lord and his army across the sea. All of the Death Eaters - including Lucius, Draco and, of course, Bella - were gone for a month. I returned to the Manor during the campaign, fearful for my family but relieved to be home, away from the malicious intrigues of court. When I received Lucius' owl, I returned to Hogwarts.

* * *

The fifth time the Mudblood was summoned to the Serpent Court was the day after the Dark Lord's debauched victory feast. No one but Granger's chamber elves had seen her since she'd groveled so shamelessly before the throne.

When she appeared in the frame of the large doors, the entire court fell silent. We watched and waited, spellbound, under the luminous half-moon that shone down from the enchanted ceiling. The Dark Lord leaned forward in his throne.

Granger had recreated herself with such extreme dedication that she was now unrecognizable.

She was Geisha.

She wore bright, silk robes in the Japanese style. Her face was powdered white, and her lips were painted an intensely rich red. Such vivid colors were nonexistent in the Serpent Court, where sycophants wore the same somber tones as their lord. Granger's eyes were downcast. Her hands folded together at a precise, demure angle. Her wild hair had been sculpted into gleaming brown coils and was adorned with colorful paper flowers. Not a single wayward curl remained. Every detail of her appearance and bearing had been exquisitely crafted. She was beautiful, delicate and aloof – an exotic creature from another world, a world of silk fans and cherry blossoms. She'd made herself _other_ and fascinating. It was an ingenious ploy. The Dark Lord would not tire of this slave overnight.

Granger's kimono limited her to small steps as she slowly walked the length of the Great Hall. She had rejected the geisha's wooden i_geta_/i for soft slippers, and her footsteps were silent. I wondered if she had possessed this grace before or if she had found a way to purchase it with potions or spells. She stopped before the dais and sank onto her knees. Only a woman who had worn such structured robes could appreciate the skill with which she managed it. The fabric barely whispered. It fanned out behind her, a luxury of embroidered silk. She placed her palms flat upon the stone floor and bowed low before her master. The nape of her neck had been left natural, free of powder and paint. Somehow, this strip of peach-colored flesh seemed more sensual and daring than the display of her cunt a month ago.

"Intriguing," the Dark Lord said. "Very good. You may rise, my flower."

Granger rose with that same incredible grace and reassumed her decorous pose, her hands folded and her eyes cast down. She had the discipline of a soldier.

"Look at me," the Dark Lord commanded. "And sing."

She lifted her gaze and stared at him placidly. She didn't turn toward the room but sang for him alone. Her voice was stunning. It filled the Great Hall like the chime of a bell, pure and powerful and effortless. A shiver of sensation ran down my arms at the sound. I didn't recognize the song, but soon, I realized - we all realized - that it was a song about the Dark Lord's victory in Rouen. I could see that this tribute pleased him more than all the corrupt pleasures that had been lavished upon him last night at the formal celebration.

I felt Bella trembling beside me. She had much to lose. I hooked my little finger around hers. A surreptitious comfort, hidden behind my skirt.

When Granger finished her song, she lowered her eyes and folded her hands together again. The Dark Lord rose from his throne and walked down the steps of the dais toward her. She stood still, with marble poise, as he studied her. He touched her red lips, her glossy hair, the pale skin of her cheek. He slipped his long fingers under the silk covering one of her clavicles. The entire court heard the soft, satisfied sound he made in his throat. A moment later, he lifted his arms and cast some sort of magic over the girl. It was wordless and wandless, but I felt its power, like gentle scratches over every inch of my skin. A dome of shimmering silver surrounded Granger before fading away.

The Dark Lord took her hand and turned them to face the hall.

"May I present Lady Flower?" he said. "She belongs to me alone. Anyone who touches her with harmful or passionate intent will face severe consequences." He smiled as his red eyes flickered toward Bella and Rodolphus. The silver light had been a protection spell.

As the Dark Lord led Lady Flower down the length of the Great Hall, I noticed that he adjusted his steps to hers. I noticed that Bella leaned forward, trying to catch his attention with the intensity of her gaze. He ignored her. I noticed that Draco seemed mystified by Granger's transformation. I wondered if he was remembering her as she'd been in school – the _buck-toothed, bushy-haired, know-it-all Mudblood_.

I also noticed that, as Lady Flower passed Rodolphus, she looked at him. It was over almost before it began - a sweep of lovely lashes, the sidelong glance of her solemn regard. I knew then that he would be dead before month's end, that she would have her revenge.

Or justice, as the case may be.

* * *

No one knew what transpired between the Dark Lord and his strange, new concubine behind the doors of his private suite, but no one had ever seen him more enthralled with a person before.

Every day, she wore a new silk kimono in the brilliant colors eschewed by the court. Now, no one dared to emulate her. What if the Dark Lord's spell interpreted imitation as intent to usurp, or harm, her? She was a butterfly, alone in the gloom. She sang songs and played the lute. She performed dances with hand fans and long, silk scarves. She served the Dark Lord's wine. I watched the angle of her white wrist as she poured. Even such a simple act was imbued with grace and artistry.

Her mind was logical and powerful, her conversation at turns witty and profound. She and the Dark Lord spoke for hours on esoteric topics. No one else in court could contribute to or even follow these discussions. Then she'd tell him a bawdy joke, all the more shocking because of her refinement and sweet charm, and he'd smile and laugh his sinister laugh. We all knew that if she'd been born of pure blood, she would be our queen.

The Dark Lord came to Bella less often, and when he did, his needs were even more violent and depraved than usual. Lady Flower continued to cast her sad, secret glances at Rodolphus, and his behavior grew more erratic. It was rumored that he now killed the women he defiled in the Pit. No one stopped him. He was of high rank, and there was always more supply.

* * *

As I had predicted, Rodolphus was dead by month's end. By chance, or perhaps not, he met the Lady Flower in the Entrance Hall. I was the only witness, following him as he followed her.

"Stop," he commanded, and she obeyed. She stood directly under the banner made from the heads of her rebellious friends. They were rotting, their stench penetrating the freshening spells that had been cast in the air around them.

"You're driving me mad," Rodolphus said. Lady Flower remained silent, staring at him across the space of five steps. He walked closer. "Say something, damn you."

"There's nothing to say," she replied softly. "We cannot be. No matter…"

"No matter what?" he pressed. "No matter what _you_ want?"

She looked up at him, an artifice of tears shining in her dark eyes, her red lips parted. His eyes grew dark with lust. He rushed forward and touched her, his hand gripping the nape of her neck. He'd forgotten about the protection spell.

It worked quickly. No slow poison of the blood, no prolonged and agonizing _Cruciatus_. Rodolphus made a choking sound and dropped to the ground, dead, the whites of his eyes red with blood. Lady Flower looked down at him, her face devoid of expression. She knew I was watching, so I stepped out of the shadows.

"Mrs. Malfoy," she said.

I might never get the chance to be alone with her again. I dropped to my knees and bowed my head until it touched the cold, stone floor.

"Lady Flower, I beg you not to take my husband or my son. Please." I waited, in abject submission. My heart was beating fast, and I couldn't catch my breath. If Lucius and Draco died, I would have nothing. Nothing in the world but my mad sister.

"Lucius and Draco Malfoy never touched me," she said.

I gasped with relief. I felt the strangest urge to reach out, grab the silk hem of her robe and kiss it in gratitude.

"And my sister?" I whispered instead. I knew that all Death Eaters go to the Pit, and Bella was the Dark Lord's most fervent Death Eater. Had she shared her husband's plaything? Had she hurt the Mudblood? Or would the Mudblood seek vengeance for past wrongs, for her merciless torture on the Manor's parlor floor?

"Bellatrix Lestrange did not harm me in the Pit," Lady Flower said. "I will tailor my future actions to match her future actions."

I felt a less palpable relief then. Blood and shared memory bound me to my sister. We are Blacks. But we haven't been truly close since she'd discovered her passion and purpose for living – the Dark Lord.

"Thank you, my lady," I said.

I heard nothing and wondered if she had walked away, on her silent slippers. I rose up and saw her, turned away from me. The dramatic sweep of her silk train brightened the dim hall. She gazed up at the severed heads of her dead friends. The valiant. Those who hadn't yielded as she had. Potter was in the center, his face distorted and soft as a rotten peach. One gentle stroke of his cheek would slough off his skin to reveal the gore beneath. His eyes were dull with death but still as green as spring leaves. The blood traitors were beside him - the Longbottom boy and one of the Weasleys, his eye sockets dark and void.

I wondered what Lady Flower, what Hermione Granger, was thinking now as she stared up at them.

I closed my eyes and whispered an incantation. It was one of a dozen secret spells, lost over the centuries and known only to the Malfoy family. These spells and curses, more precious than glittering gemstones, had been taught to me after Draco's healthy birth. I felt the magic thrum through me, and I grew cold. Soon, I couldn't feel anything but my face. The rest of me seemed to be lost in some phantom realm. I smelled the stench of rotting flesh. Suddenly, though my own eyes were still closed, I was seeing through the dead, green eyes of Harry Potter.

Granger stared up at me.

* * *

So this was how she truly feels.

I see her gazing up at Potter's head, her eyes shining with deep sadness and true tears.

Her cosmetics and her will are powerful masks. She paints herself white and red. She wraps her body in gorgeous silks. She wears flowers in her hair. She sings and dances. She gives pleasure. She entertains the Dark Lord in so many ways. She has become a fantasy. By captivating him, she has saved herself. For now.

But beneath it all, just a soft touch away, lies rot and gore. Her loss and pain. Her guilt and regret.

She must never let the Dark Lord see what is hidden beneath her lacquered surface. If she does, his interest in her will change. She will become a challenge, a game to be played. Something fragile as well as beautiful, something he'll delight in breaking. Whether he destroys her with one, great shattering or with a thousand, tiny fractures – that will just depend upon the whim of his malice.

Or perhaps she can maintain her mask. She is inordinately strong.

Or, over time, she could simply become what she pretends to be. The Lady Flower.

I whisper the counter-spell that removes my vision from Potter's dead eyes. After fighting a swell of nausea, I open my own eyes to see Granger walking away from me toward her private chambers. The silk train of her kimono trails behind her, luminous in the dark corridor. A long, brown lock of hair, barely curling, falls over her shoulder, and I know that she has pulled it out of its intricate architecture of pins.

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
